


Safe House, Dangerous Company (to die is hard)

by xshadowphantom



Series: bad times in brooklyn [3]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s05e12 Safe House, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt Jake Peralta, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Whump, holt literally being jake’s dad, jake and his two (2) gay dads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:34:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24022180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xshadowphantom/pseuds/xshadowphantom
Summary: “You know what, screw this,” Jake decides, because he really doesn’t want his not-dads to get divorced, “We need a break. I’m a cop, I can protect us. We’re going to the library.”They do. And it’s fine.Until it’s not.orholt is a little less overprotective, and the safe house isn’t safe at all
Relationships: Kevin Cozner/Ray Holt, Ray Holt & Jake Peralta
Series: bad times in brooklyn [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1662124
Comments: 58
Kudos: 452





	1. Chapter 1

“I just don’t feel comfortable lying to my husband, Jake,” Kevin admits as they stand in one of their designated not-visible-through-the-window areas, reviewing a few self defense tips that the professor clearly doesn’t need, if Jake’s aching throat is anything to go by.

“Well, don’t think of it as lying then!” Says Jake, then snaps his fingers and lowers his voice into his Nick Cage impression. “It isn't lying! You just tell them what you did right...”

“...and you leave out the rest.” Kevin easily finishes the quote from _Snake Eyes_ , though without the same enthusiasm as Jake. His face morphs into one of mild disturbance and he nods in agreement. “Yes,” he concedes, “I desperately need to leave this house. We’ll go.”

“Yes! Okay, we’ll need disguises. And since we’re going to a public library, the best way to fit in is as—”

“Scholars,” says Kevin.

“Weird perverts,” says Jake at the same time.

Kevin nods. “Yes,” he agrees, “Weird perverts is far better.”

“ _Far_ better,” echoes Jake.

So they go to the library, and Kevin spends two hours working on his book while Jake relishes in the lack of safehouse-stench and the freedom of breathing air that hasn’t come out of Kevin’s mouth. On their way back to the house, they take three different buses, sometimes on routes that double back just in case.

They make it back to their hideout without any problems, and the weight that seems to have lifted from Kevin’s shoulders is worth anything Captain Holt will have to say when he finds out that Jake disobeyed him.

• • •

It’s about an hour later, around 5:30 and the sun has just started to set, and they’re finishing up a meal that, despite Jake’s objections, consists of mostly white rice and vegetables and includes zero pizza pockets—Kevin has limited him to one every other day because without their open window time, the burnt grease and processed tomato smell is seriously piling up—when there’s a series of professionally reserved knocks on the door.

Jake’s first instinct is to indulge in a series of internally groans, because this means that Captain Holt had finished his meetings early and watched the security tapes in his extra time and is now coming to chew him out for letting Kevin leave the house. He starts toward the door, already preparing himself for the typical greeting of ‘bang; you’re dead’ that he seems to receive no matter how carefully he follows Captain Holt’s procedures, when a sort of realization dawns on him and he frowns. He turns to Kevin for confirmation and sees the same look of doubt on the professor’s face.

“That was not Raymond’s knock,” says Kevin with a touch of uncertainty.

Jake nods. “Go to the bedroom,” he commands, because he’d rather overreact than risk anything, “Lock the door.”

Kevin opens his mouth to argue.

The sound of a gun firing fills their little house.

• • •

It’s not something Jake admits often, but just this once he’s willing to wholeheartedly say that Holt was right.

As the handle flies off of the front door, leaving a smoking hole behind in the wood, and the hinges creak as the now-useless barrier is pushed open, Jake realizes that he’d give anything to have the captain here right now, if only so he could say: “Hey sir; guess what? You were completely, totally, 100% right. Sorry that we’re all gonna die now.”

As it is, Captain Holt is not here, so there’s nothing to do except for curse and panic as Seamus Murphy himself sweeps into the room, gun cocked and aimed high at Kevin’s forehead. He’s followed by a lackey in a bright red button down, and Jake feels a flash of _oh, fuck_ because he recognizes that red shirt from the library _and_ the second bus.

“Well that’s hilarious,” remarks Murphy offhandedly, as he takes in their humble abode with an air of disinterested superiority. “I come to settle the score with a double-crossing police captain and here’s Jake Peralta, the same bastard I upheld my end of the bargain for.”

“This doesn’t have to end badly, Seamus,” says Jake placatingly, holding his hands palms out in a show of peace, “Just tell me what you want.”

“Easy. I’m gonna take Kevin, find Holt, slit Kevin’s throat in front of him, then, after he watches his husband suffer, kill Holt too.”

“That’s a bad idea,” Jake warns, “The whole NYPD is looking for you. They know we’re here, and if anything happens to us they’ll know it was you.”

“Okay, thanks for the tip.” Seamus turns to his partner. “Let’s kill him and get out of here before any cops come.”

“Wait!” Jake inches closer to Kevin, trying to shield the professor’s body with his own.

Red Shirt lifts his gun and Jake’s internal monologue is running through every swear he knows, brain stalling to figure out how he’s supposed to keep Kevin from getting shot without any of his gear.

Then the gun goes off, and Kevin startles and yells: “Jake!”, and Jake whips his head around to analyze the damage but Kevin is... _fine_ , and Jake’s grateful but confused until suddenly his knees buckle and he’s on the ground.

His knees sting a little from the impact, but the bigger issue is that he’s suddenly very aware of the veritable _hole_ in his gut. Oh, they were talking about shooting _him_ , not Kevin. Huh.

Murphy brushes past him roughly to grab Kevin, who’s frozen behind the couch.

“No,” Jake gasps, even though protesting is useless, “Kevin, run!”

He tries to stumble to his feet—they’re gonna kill him anyway; he might as well do whatever he can to save Holt’s husband—but Red Shirt telegraphs Jake’s movements and shoves him back down. Jake groans as the bullet inside of him shifts.

He looks down, then, and that immediately proves to be a mistake. There’s so much blood. He supposes he should have expected that; he’s a cop, he’s seen what bullets do to people. It’s just, usually... well, he’s usually not there when it first happens. He’s only ever been in, like, two active shooter calls, and in both of those he wasn’t on a team that experienced any casualties or serious injuries. And, also, he’s a detective, not a patrol officer. He isn’t typically first on the scene. He gets cases _after_ they come through dispatch. _After_ the body or the victim is found. _After_ the body’s been covered up or the vic’s wounds have been treated. And, like, gruesome bloody murder scenes are dope and all, but it’s not like he’s actually there during the bleeding out part of the death.

So, yeah. It’s a little shocking to see just how quickly all the bloodiness happens.

Also, it’s decidedly less dope when the blood is his blood. Belatedly, and possibly fatally too late, he slaps a hand over stomach. There’s already a pool growing beneath him, and even now the blood immediately starts to seep through the gaps between his fingers, puddling over the temporary road block.

Plus, it’s warm. Did he want it to be cold? I mean, it makes sense that it would be warm, cause it was in his body just like blood is supposed to be, but it’s still a weird, gross sensation.

 _Also_ also, now that he’s looked at it properly, it’s _really starting to hurt_. Like, more than the time he got beat up in prison. More than the time he broke his wrist in high school while petting that horse. More than the time Amy shot him in the leg in Florida, even, because then it just went through his thigh, but right now the bullet is literally _stuck inside of his internal organs_.

God. Is he rambling? Or, whatever the internal thought-stream version of rambling is?

There’s a tug on his hair from some unknown source outside of his thought bubble. He peels his eyes away from the colors busting in the air above him. It’s Murphy. Jake groans before he can stop himself.

Oh, fuck, where’s Kevin? Jake doesn’t see him. Did he escape?

Murphy gives another tug, this one noticeably more violent.

“Peralta,” he says sharply, impatiently, “If you’re still alive when he gets here, tell Holt I have his husband and I’m looking to finish what he started. We’ll be upstate. If he’s not here by then... Well, I’m sure he’ll figure it out.”

“No,” Jake coughs, “Murphy—”

It’s too late, though. Seamus Murphy is gone, and Kevin is too.

Jake lets his head fall back against the carpet again, and tries his best to relax his body—tensing muscles makes you bleed out faster, that much he does know.

He really messed this one up, huh. All he had to do was keep Kevin inside; safe. And now, what? It ends with him bleeding out on the floor while Kevin and Holt are murdered by Murphy and his sidekick?

Okay, no. No, he’s not gonna let that happen. Alright Jake, focus. There’s still time to fix this.

Holt confiscated Jake’s and Kevin’s cellphones and laptops on their first day in the safehouse. But this house is, like, solidly suburban, and it’s classy enough that there’s still a landline in the kitchen. Captain Holt made it pretty clear that the phone was for emergencies only. This is definitely an emergency.

And luckily, Jake knows exactly four numbers from memory: Amy’s (for obvious reasons), Gina’s (for the hot gossip), Rosa’s other other other non-work burner (for in case he ever needs to, like, hide a body or disappear to Venezuela or go out for a drink or something), and Captain Holt’s cell (because Holt made him because apparently it’s “important to know phone numbers without the safety net of a ‘contacts’ application in case you are ever in need of help and without access to your cellular device”).

If he calls Holt now, they can probably catch up to Murphy in time to stop anything from happening to Kevin.

Using the couch as leverage, Jake drags himself into something of a standing position, and _damn_ the movies make that seem easy.

Ugh. Head rush.

A red stain trails behind him as he stumbles towards the kitchen. The blood will be hell to clean; he’s sure they’ll have to re-carpet the living room. Or they could keep it. As a... modern art display. What does Gina call them? Statement pieces. Yeah, to symbolize, like, the impermanence of life or something. The Brooklyn hipsters would love it.

His legs are starting to jelly again; the steading hands he uses to pull himself the rest of the way towards the phone leave a neat line of garish bloody prints on the tops of the crappy kitchen chairs.

His fingers shake with the force of an earthquake as he punches in the number to Captain Holt’s cellphone and slides to the floor. The dial tone hums cheerfully against his ear.

“You’ve reached Raymond Holt, I _can_ come to the phone.”

“Captain,” he gasps into the landline, hoping his voice contains enough urgency to overshadow how wounded and out-of-breath he is, “Murphy. Found us. He’s going upstate. You have to get there.”

“ _What_?” Says the captain rhetorically, before he reigns in the emoting and goes back to being a robot, “Understood. I’m adding Detective Boyle to the call. He has been running an undercover operation with Diaz to locate Murphy’s hideout.”

A jingling beep sounds through the speaker; Jake watches a little more blood dribble through his fingers, the single hand he has pressed to his shirt not doing nearly enough to keep him from bleeding out.

“Boyle, where is Diaz with Murphy’s girlfriend? Has she mentioned anything about a base of operations in upstate New York?”

“Upstate?” Echoes Boyle, then gasps, “They’re going to Rhinebeck! Nicki said he has a place up there for when things get too hot.”

Amy and Terry chime in next; Holt must have conferenced the rest of the squad in along with Charles.

“Scully!” Calls Amy, “Where’s that piece of junkmail with the Rhinebeck address?”

Scully shouts a reply, Boyle frets about how long it’ll take to get there from Brooklyn. Jake focuses on breathing in and out, pressing a dish towel to his stomach and trying not to groan too loudly in the direction of the phone.

“Peralta, we’re on our way,” says Holt, deep and faux-calm, “Tell Kevin to stay calm, help is coming.”

“Okay,” Jake breathes, and the callers disconnect one at a time as Holt gives out rapid fire orders.

When he feels like he’s probably been dismissed, Jake lets the handset drop away from his ear. It dangles lifelessly on its cord, swinging like a pendulum while he puts all the weight he can manage on staunching the flow of blood from his gunshot wound.

He needs to call dispatch. They’ll get an ambulance out to him, and Captain Holt will rescue Kevin, and everything will be just fine.

His core gives a particularly sharp throb, and he bites the inside of his cheek in place of a scream.

Okay. Yes. Time to call 9-1-1. His fingers are sluggish and uncooperative when he curls them loosely around the receiver for the second time in as many minutes.

Shit. The keypad is all the way on top of the counter. He’ll have to pull himself up. With a bullet in his gut. Cool. Cool, cool, cool. It’s fine. If John McClane can do it, so can he.

Except, now that he’s on the ground again, he can’t seem to get his legs to respond anymore. Or his arms. Or anything, really. His whole body is just... floaty. And cold.

It’s fine, he just needs a minute.

The phone is dangling by his head again. When did everything get so dark?

\- - - - -

Raymond sits at his desk, right pointer finger tapping out a restrained adagio beat as he waits impatiently for his office phone to ring. When Peralta had raised the alarm forty-one minutes ago, Raymond’s first instinct had been, obviously, to grab a gun and a car and race up to Rhinebeck, New York.

Unfortunately, however, as per NYPD rules and regulations he was deemed “too emotionally close” to the situation, and had received an array of reasons detailing why he was not allowed to assist in the arrest of Seamus Murphy. Raymond supposes that in the end this is for the better; the NYPD had dispatched officers nearer to Murphy’s Rhinebeck hideout, meaning they will likely find Kevin and Peralta sooner and thus lessening the chances of anything going awry.

Which brings him here, now forty- _three_ minutes later, waiting by the phone for any news on the impromptu rescue mission.

With each passing moment, he rejoices in the fact that he has never seen an action-adventure film of the variety Peralta seems to enjoy so much. From what Raymond has heard relayed to him by the overeager detective, the films (if they can even be truly considered _films_ ) often contain complicated, anxiety-inducing, and gratuitously violent sequences involving hostages and the protagonist attempting to rescue said hostages. Considering the current circumstances, Raymond is reasonably sure that, had he been one to see pictures of that nature, his mind would be relentlessly conjuring scenario upon scenario in which Kevin fell victim to aforementioned violence.

He supposed this is yet another reason why he should continue to indulge only in true cinema like biographical motion pictures, gripping historical documentaries, and the occasional classic novel adaptation, provided it does not stray too far from its source material.

Oh, he’s slipped into a tangent. How unprofessional. Clearly the situation is affecting him substantially more than he initially suspected.

He wonders if now would be the time to indulge in a distraction. Perhaps he can strike up a... casual conversation with a member of his squad. Hm. Not Santiago: the two of them in the same small room, thinking about the possible future of their respective fiancée and husband, would inevitably serve as nothing more than a reminder of the very thing he is endeavoring to ignore. Mother Jeffords would hardly be better; for heavens sake, he might even try to “talk about” how Raymond is feeling and offer “comfort.” Detectives Hitchcock and Scully fail to even garner consideration. Diaz, Boyle, and Gina are still en route after their brief undercover operation at the hair salon. According to his assistant’s emoticon-filled text messages, the trio had to make several stops to acquire a properly conditioning hair relaxer and a bottle of dark brown dye.

How ironic, Raymond thinks, that the only two people he would not object to conversing with right now are Kevin and Peralta.

Kevin, of course, never fails to provide a stimulating exchange, and Peralta is constantly brimming with enough childish drivel to distract even the most unflinching of professionals. In fact, Raymond is almost positive that he has heard Peralta exclaim, verbatim, that he is “good enough to get a reaction out of those stony-macaroni guards in London, but I wouldn’t do that, because they could get fined for being distracted and costing them a paycheck would just be a dick move ‘cause everyone’s gotta make a living, especially in this economy.”

The phone on his desk begins to jingle. He picks it up before it has finished its first ring.

“This is Captain Raymond Holt, 99th Precinct.”

“Hello, Raymond, it’s your husband, Kevin Cozner.”

Raymond sags two centimeters into his desk chair. “Kevin, thank god. Are you alright?”

“I’m unharmed,” Kevin reassures softly, “Seamus Murphy had grandiose plans of waiting for you to arrive before enacting any objective. He monologued the entirety of his illusory schemes to me in the time I accompanied him. It was quite reminiscent of a scene in a film featuring Nicolas Cage that I recently viewed.”

Raymond chuckles lightly. “You’re watching action films now? I’m shocked.”

Kevin makes a noise of assent. “You know, Raymond, while I’m relieved a closer precinct was able to locate Murphy so quickly, I must admit I was fairly surprised when you did not arrive atop a noble stead to rescue me, your proverbial damsel. After all this time apart, I rather miss my knight in shining armor.”

A smile graces Raymond’s lips, much too wide to be professional. _Kevin_ , his inner voice admonishes fondly. He’s at work for god’s sake. “My apologies. I suppose I will have to correct that oversight later.”

“Indeed. Perhaps we should indulge in a ‘date night’ of sorts. I’ve certainly spent enough nights thinking about our reunion; we simply must make at least one of them into a reality.”

“I would not object to an evening of that nature,” Raymond replies, and silently thanks the heavens that his office door is closed. He can’t imagine what his precinct would think if they overheard this conversation. Kevin always was the flirtatious one in their marriage, but this level of brazen sexuality is something they have not resorted to since the early days of their courtship. Raymond decides to change the subject before the bedroom talk escalates any further. They’ll have plenty of time for that later.

“And how is Peralta?” He asks, “No doubt likening the situation to a Ron McClane movie?”

There is an unsettling pause; it punctures the equilibrium of their conversation and lasts a fraction of a second too long to be comfortable.

“You aren’t with him?” Asks Kevin at last, and his voice rises 1.4 decibels.

Raymond frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“They left him at the house, Raymond,” Kevin stresses, suddenly alarmingly urgent, “He’s been _shot_.”

The phone nearly drops from Raymond’s grasp. “Kevin, I have to go.”

He barely registers the hurried “I love you”s that they exchange as he ends the call, already rushing down to the parking garage as he dials 9-1-1 into his cellular phone.

• • •

In the end, Raymond arrives at the safehouse before the ambulance.

In their defense, he violated innumerable traffic laws on his way over. Were this not the epitome of an emergency, he might even feel compelled to write himself a few tickets.

However, this _is_ the epitome of an emergency, so he cannot spare too much remorse.

When he approaches the front door, the first thing he sees is where Seamus Murphy put several bullets into it, shattering the lock and decimating the handle. When he enters into the living room, the first thing he sees is the wide swaths of blood, like an amateur Mondrian fanatic took a seventeen inch brush to the furniture.

“Peralta!” There is no response to his call.

In the dimmest of silver linings, the thick lines of maroon paint an incredibly clear path to wherever Peralta has dragged himself off to. He follows the macabre trail into the kitchen, and against the gray and cream tiles, the contrast is even more grotesque.

Then he rounds the corner of the marble island, and sees him.

“Christ,” Raymond swears, the profanity whispered under his breath in a moment of pure stupefaction.

Peralta is whiter than a freshly pressed linen; sweat and goosebumps rear across his face and arms while his head tips back against the cabinets. The red-stained palms that once held pressure over his wound lie limp, facing up towards the heavens as if accepting the final blessing.

There is a thin line of blood streaking down his chin. He looks... dead.

 _No_. Raymond shakes himself into motion, shedding his NYPD windbreaker to bunch up against the detective’s stomach. A rapidly conducted evaluation of Peralta’s condition reveals cold skin, shallow breaths, and a soft but rapid heartbeat. He is alive, but probably not for much longer.

Raymond wracks his brain, pulling together the information he’ll need to relay to the paramedics when they arrive. Peralta’s in hypovolemic shock: he will more than likely need a blood transfusion. If Raymond is remembering correctly from Peralta’s personnel file, his blood type is B+. No known allergies to any medications or sedatives.

Of course, this information will only be pertinent if he survives long enough to receive help.

Guilt and regret overpower Raymond’s senses as he recalls the way he so flippantly dismissed the detective’s efforts on that first day in the safehouse, crafting a scenario in which Peralta failed to protect Kevin. ‘He bled out in your lap.’ Those were the words he had used. And look where that irreverence has gotten him.

He slides a hand behind Peralta’s back, easing him flat onto the floor so that gravity is no longer working against the flow of the blood still in his body. The movement jars the detective; he stirs infinitesimally.

“Jacob?” Raymond lowers his voice into something gentle. He has never been a father, but if he were he might even call the tone paternal. “Can you hear me?”

Peralta’s eyelids flutter, but do not open. Raymond decides that he strongly dislikes this new palette of colors on Peralta. His blue plaid is dyed purple, his lips hold no color, the inside of his mouth is scarlet when it falls open. It is uncomfortable, striking; the slight discolorations are like flashing neon announcing that things are not alright.

“Where’s Kevin?” Peralta asks breathily, voice barely detectable in the small kitchen, “Did you... you got him?”

“Yes. Kevin is perfectly fine and is being escorted to the 99th Precinct as we speak. He is likely giving his statement right now,” Raymond replies, and applies a little more weight to the wound.

Peralta’s face creases into a grimace; his teeth grit against each other audibly.

“Stop,” he gasps, “It hurts.”

His voice is so filled with pain that Raymond nearly obeys. “I’m sorry,” he says instead, “It is vital that I maintain a force of at least 3.86 pounds per square inch.”

“I’m sorry,” whispers Peralta; a quiet, shame-filled confession, “It was my fault. Went to the library.”

Oh.

On any other day, the admission would have warranted a thorough reprimand about open defiance of direct orders, rampant irresponsibility, or needlessly exacerbating the risk to innocent lives. Today, however, Raymond finds that it is rather impossible to be upset with a dying man.

His lips twist down in strain. “I am sure you took all the precautions you deemed necessary,” he says, because it is the gentlest half-scold that he can think of, “You could not have known that this would be the result.”

“Is Kevin okay?” Peralta asks again, and Raymond wonders if he is simple double-checking or if the blood loss has progressed to the point of causing confusion.

“Yes,” Raymond repeats patiently, “He is giving his statement, and will then be taken home where two officers will stand guard until such time as Murphy’s organization is confirmed to be of no further threat.”

“Okay.” Peralta is beginning to nod off again. Raymond takes comfort in the fact that he can hear the steadily approaching emergency vehicles. The situation will be out of his hands soon, passed off to those far more qualified to help.

“Peralta.” He risk a slight jostle, shaking the detective’s shoulder to ensure he stays alert. “Jacob, do you hear the sirens?”

Peralta nods. “For Kevin? He’s okay?”

“Kevin is safe. The ambulance is coming for you. Can you remain alert while the EMTs tend to your injury?”

Peralta manages a small, tight-lipped smile, the attempt a far cry from his typical expression. “Is that an order?”

“Yes,” Raymond decides, equal parts playing along and knowing that labeling the request as an “order” is likely to increase the effort Peralta puts into it.

“Aye-aye, Captain,” Peralta wheezes, then adds: “Spongebob,” by way of explanation. The compound word means nothing to Raymond, but he goes along with it anyway.

The responding medical technicians have finally arrived in the kitchen; they swarm about the bloodied tiles like so many buzzing bees, swiftly coaxing Raymond out of the way. Hospital-grade bandages appear, and his badly stained windbreaker is pushed back into his hands. It is tacky and foul with Peralta’s blood. His hands and fingernails are faring no better.

“Captain? Captain,” says the short, dark-haired EMT before him. Raymond gets the sense that she has been trying to get his attention for several moments. “Will you be riding with him?”

He looks to the gurney they have wheeled in; surveys Peralta’s painfully small form laid out on it. The detective is doing his best to remain awake, tired eyes blinking quickly back into awareness every time he slips away. A look of confusion crosses his face when the medical technicians ask him questions he cannot remember the answers to.

Raymond’s heart twists and pangs. His cellphone feels heavy in his pocket, and he thinks of how he should call his husband, call Santiago, update them on the situation. He thinks of how tirelessly Peralta worked to protect Kevin, wounded and bleeding and still calling for them to help Kevin without even mentioning his own condition. He thinks of how quickly Detective Jake Peralta had wormed his way into Raymond’s life all those years ago; how now he has finally won over Kevin as well.

“Yes,” he says.

The phone calls and injury reports and stacks of paperwork can wait, he realizes. Right now, there is something much more important he must do. What is the old adage? Family comes first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> life update:
> 
> time is so fake right now. school is even more fake. I’m obsessed with mac peralta. I would die for him and his soft baby face. jake and amy are going to be the best parents ever. they are the absolute softest family. send tweet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> by request of NotEvenNightshade, a hospital chapter!
> 
> aka let’s put Jake “I’m uncomfortable with emotions” Peralta and Raymond “*deadpan* I am good at emotions” Holt in a room together and make them talk

He’s sitting in the back of the ambulance when Peralta’s heart stops.

Raymond despises trite sayings, but in the moment the only way he can think to describe the feeling is “like all the air has been sucked out of the room.”

The EMTs have been feeding a line of blood into Peralta’s arm since they brought him into the truck, but Raymond knows that even after a transfusion begins, heart failure is not uncommon in cases of hypovolemic shock. The stress of pumping an inadequate supply of blood throughout the body for a prolonged amount of time simply weakens the organ until it can no longer perform.

Unfortunately, however, the knowledge of _why_ this is happening does nothing to lessen the terribleness of the fact that it _is_ happening.

As the lead EMT begins chest compressions and a second one ensures that Peralta’s airways are clear, Raymond realizes how desperately he wishes that he had not consented to riding in the ambulance. Then he registers what a selfish thing that is to think when Jake Peralta is still dying in front of him. Then he gives himself a bit of slack, because Peralta dying is exactly why he does not wish to be here right now.

It is the same feeling he had at his father’s funeral, Raymond realizes. The feeling that if he were not present, experiencing the loss and the tragedy right in front of him, then it would be like it had not happened. If he could avoid acknowledging the terrible event, he could avoid processing it, and thereby avoid being hurt by it.

Repression. That’s what it is.

“28...29...30,” counts the dark-haired EMT. She nods to her partner. Peralta’s chest inflates and deflates with the two rescue breaths being pumped into his lungs, and she begins her count again.

“1...2...3...”

Raymond finds himself, absurdly, monitoring her beats per minute to ensure she is keeping the proper pace. As if she of all people would not know how swiftly to administer compressions. He supposes the irrationality is simply his body’s futile attempt to be doing anything useful.

He watches the second hand make its way around the face of his watch one and three-eighths times before they manage to get Peralta’s heart beating on its own again.

It is the longest 83 seconds of Raymond’s life.

• • •

The rest of the drive is blissfully uneventful. Peralta never regains consciousness, but the EMT—Sarah, her name is—assures him that it is just a result of the concoction of painkillers they’ve given the detective.

She assures him of other things as well, but the words drift in and out of his ears without stopping at his brain.

When they arrive at the hospital, she orders him to wait in the sitting room as they rush Peralta into surgery. The double doors swing closed with a deafening sort of finality, and Raymond thinks unwillingly of all the people who are wheeled through that doorway and never come out.

If Peralta dies in there, it will be Raymond’s own fault, and Peralta will have died to save Kevin. It will be the hero’s death that the detective has often daydreamed about, certainly, but at what cost to the precinct? To his fiancée, and his friends and his family?

Hm. Perhaps more repression is in order. He busies himself with other tasks; namely, placing the necessary calls to the 9-9 to explain that he will not be returning, to Kevin to explain that he will have to miss dinner tonight, and to Santiago to explain that she should meet him at Brooklyn Methodist.

The first two parts of that plan are easy. He clears his absence with the reception desk on the first floor, and the young man on the line promises to have a message sent up to place the sergeant in charge until the end of the day shift. Kevin is, of course, wholly understanding and immeasurably relieved that Peralta had been found on time, and tells Raymond that he will set aside one portion of rice and beans in the refrigerator to be reheated.

The problem comes in the third prong. He runs through the conversation multiple times in his head, attempting to find the balance of professionalism and sympathy that would properly relay the situation. Every time his finger hovers over the keypad, he imagines that it is Kevin receiving the call that Captain Raymond Holt has been fatally wounded in the line of duty and—what is the phrase?—“chickens out.”

In a moment of pure cowardice Raymond dials Jeffords’ number instead, and leaves it to the sergeant to relay the information to Santiago. His composure is too compromised to do so himself.

Raymond spends the rest of his wait practicing his posture, making meticulous adjustments every time his shoulders slump a little or his back tires from sitting straight in the cheap plastic chair.

The evening passes slowly, marked only by the slowly shifting flow of civilians in and out of the reception area.

• • •

The clock on the waiting room wall reads 9:48 (a one hundred and seventeen second discrepancy from his wristwatch) by the time someone in light scrubs and a white coat emerges to receive the family of Jacob Peralta.

The bullet had torn through quite a bit of skin and blood vessels before lodging into Peralta’s kidney, the doctor explains. Once the transfusions began it was a relatively easy repair, with no complications. Peralta was already awake. He would recuperate in the ICU for a period of approximately 24 hours. Depending on how the night went, he could even move to the general ward as soon as tomorrow afternoon.

Each subsequent sentence brings a surge of relief, a noble eagle lifting the weight from Raymond’s chest as if snatching up its next wicked meal.

“I do have to warn you,” the doctor says, pointing Raymond towards Peralta’s door, “He’ll be wired to a lot of machines, but they’re nothing to worry about. He’s finishing up his last transfusion and getting antibiotics to prevent septic shock or other infections. After the earlier cardiac arrest, we’re also monitoring his heart, but that’s mainly to track the effectiveness of his treatment.”

Raymond thanks the doctor, assures himself that he will maintain a professional demeanor, and enters the room, where Peralta is, in fact, fully alert and sitting upright in his hospital bed amidst the jungle of tubes around him.

He looks, if possible, worse than he did in that moment when Raymond had first entered the kitchen. The pallor of blood loss is apparently nothing in comparison to the manifested strain of a heart attack.

Clearly, however, the translucent skin and sunken eyes aren’t bothering Peralta in the slightest, because as soon as Raymond enters the room his face thoroughly lights up.

“Dad!” He says by way of greeting, “I mean, Captain Dad! I mean—hi, sir.”

“Jacob.” Raymond feels suddenly strange, self-conscious, like perhaps he should not be the first visitor, like that spot should be reserved for immediate family. “I’m just here to check on your wellbeing.”

Peralta smiles. “My being is well,” he promises, then, surveying his current situation, amends: “Well-ish.”

“Yes, well...” Why does the room feel so stuffy all of the sudden? “I am sure Santiago will be here shortly. The doctor advised that too many visitors may overwhelm you, so I will just... go.”

He doesn’t miss the way Peralta’s face falls.

“Are you mad at me?” Asks Peralta reservedly.

For once in his life, Raymond finds himself speechless. “Am I mad at you?” He parrots back dumbly.

“For putting Kevin in danger,” Peralta says, words running together as he rushes through his explanation, “I know I shouldn’t have done it and I’m sorry. I was worried that you guys were gonna get divorced, and I know that’s none of my business but I just—. You’re the best couple I know and I didn’t want you guys to fall apart, especially if there was something I could do to stop it. And it just feels like you’re mad at me, and I get it, ‘cause I messed up, but I really am sorry and I don’t want you to be mad at him, either, because he didn’t do anything—”

“I am not mad at you, Peralta.”

He falls silent. “Oh.”

“I was slightly displeased at first, but for the most part I was just worried.”

“Worried?”

Raymond decides to sit. These dreaded emotions will not be easy for him to acknowledge either way, but perhaps pulling up a chair can help alleviate some of the pressure. “Yes, Jacob: worried. You died protecting my husband from a man who was seeking revenge upon me. Neither of you should have been involved in the first place, and both of you almost lost your lives as a result of my mistake.”

Peralta forces out a chuckle. “Oh. ‘Real talk’ alert.” It falls flat.

“Indeed,” Raymond replies, and shifts in his seat. He tells himself it is only physical discomfort that plagues him. The chair’s lumbar support is horrendous. “When Seamus Murphy approached me in that cafe, he threatened my husband and it blinded me. I could focus only on Kevin’s safety; the thought that someone else might pay the price for my actions never occurred to me. And in my blindness I forgot that there were other people I care about.”

Peralta is squirming in his hospital bed, looking almost as restless as Raymond feels. Apparently Raymond is not the only one of them who is uncomfortable with such a display of emotions. He powers through regardless.

“It is egregiously regretful that it took such extreme circumstances for me to see that I could have handled myself better, and I cannot help but feel partially responsible for what happened.”

“But I’m the one who—”

“Please, Peralta, let me finish,” Raymond entreats, and Peralta resumes his nervous chewing on his lip. “I was snappish and dismissive of your efforts to keep Kevin safe when all you were trying to do was keep my husband healthy and entertained. I feel that my constant undermining may have played a role in your decision to keep your injury a secret in order to ensure Kevin’s safety. Being stuck in that safehouse couldn’t have been easy for you, and my attitude did not help. If I made you feel that your own health was of the lowest priority... I am sorry, truly. That was never my intention.”

By the end of his spiel, Raymond is focused solely on his own twiddling thumbs, no longer able to meet Peralta’s eye.

“That’s not why I did it,” says Peralta in reply, but he sounds unsure of himself. “I mean,” he blows out a breath and looks at the ceiling, “Maybe, a little, but I just wanted to keep him safe. He means a lot to you and... you mean a lot to me and whatever, so, so I wasn’t really thinking of it like that, at least consciously. And, like, I’m a cop and he’s a civilian and that’s what we do, right?”

He is not being entirely clear in his statement, but then again when is Peralta ever perfectly understandable?

He clears his throat and tries again. “I just wanted to make sure everyone was okay. I didn’t want you to have to choose between going after Kevin or trying to get to me.”

“You eliminated the choice for me.”

“Yeah.”

Raymond hesitates before his next sentence, choosing the words carefully. “Jacob, if I had known that you were injured... Do not assume I would have left you there.”

The corner of Peralta’s mouth shifts upwards a fraction. “Oh,” he says, “Cool.”

Raymond has run out of things to say, but even so he finds he cannot justify leaving Peralta’s side just yet. He makes a show of checking his watch for the time. “It is getting late,” he remarks, “And you did undergo an invasive surgery only hours ago. You should rest.”

Peralta nods erratically, and his fingers skitter atop his bedsheets. “Would you want to, maybe, stay?” He asks cautiously, lifting only his eyes to gauge Raymond’s reaction.

Raymond consents with an incline of his head.

“I would like that.”

This time the smile is less hidden. “Cool.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also, I finally made a [tumblr](https://xshadowphantom.tumblr.com/)


End file.
